


Strangers on a Page

by rosemadder15



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Technology AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemadder15/pseuds/rosemadder15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hopelessly bored and jaded from a month of touring Europe, a willful John Lennon takes a risk with an endearing girl on a chat site. And from the get-go, Lennon's ready to start something dangerous to get his adventure fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's got a bit of an AU where technologies like computers and Tumblr are available. And yes, the Beatles would have their own secret Tumblr's, this is fact. No really time stamp other than the time period before they dropped touring. Also, be gentle - my first is bound to be rough, especially when it's quickly becoming a chapter series. Enjoy. :)  
> P.S. - the higher rating is for later. This is, after all, a chapter story. I'm just starting small for now.

It shouldn’t have been as common as it was, but at some ungodly hour in yet another unremarkable hotel room, John woke up and thought _Shit, where are we again?_

He lifted his head lazily from the fortress of paper and comforters to find their cold, white hotel room quite empty. His hands fumbled through the fabric hoping they’d release his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. Someone had turned on _The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan_ and “The Girl from the North Country” was left at maximum volume to vibrate the sterile walls of the room. It was the only album they’d brought with them on the tour, they’d bought it right out of Brian’s shop before he’d renounced it, and John desperately wanted to turn it off. Seeing as that required effort, however, he politely declined and took to throwing pencils at it while it taunted him.

He’d found his glasses wedged between some forgotten dime store copy of The Great Gatsby and his laptop. He reluctantly placed them on his nose, ever aware of how absolutely daft he looked in them. It seemed illogical, what with him being alone in a posh hotel room on the closed off top floor of an expensive inn, but it was less of the usual insecurity and more of the lingering feeling. That is, the lingering feeling of those long days of being stared at. It seemed that everyone chose to look in The Beatles direction nowadays; fans, interviewers, photographers, hell all of America after their ground breaking tour. They rarely played more then a thirty minute set a night, but even from that their staring lasted longer than imagined and the impression of their eyes drilled deeper than the skin.

John found among the sad, crumpled remains of crap songs and rubbish ideas for his rubbish book strewn about the sheets, a neat and carefully folded note propped up against the headboard. He could just see the curved outline of Brian’s perfect and rather feminine handwriting peeking beneath the folds in the paper. He pulled it closer and read:

Gone to the bank. Low on cash. Didn't want to disturb you're "creative process". If you leave for anything, I will find you and imply proper punishment. Stay classy. :)

B.E

 

 _Well, good riddance,_ John thought, _you can only watch three grown men argue over a game a’ Monopoly so many times._ He sat up and in an instant began formulating escape plans. After coming to the conclusion that he was too recognizable to escape through the front door without feeling the wrath of many hormonally challenged teens and that he wasn’t nearly athletic enough to survive the fire escape, he promptly threw in the towel and logged onto Tumblr. He was about done sulking over the art that he thought better than his when he was assaulted by a wild personally blog post. He was about to scroll past until he saw the impressionable words “I will jump out the window if someone doesn’t talk with me. Help save this awkward not-so-grown up adult (in your area) by entering this chat room and easing this crushing boredom.”

John was impressed. For two sentences, the message held an incredible amount of snark and immaturity disguised in articulation that was paralleled only by his own. Taking a shot in the dark, he opened the link.

It was about as plain as it gets; a simply beige backdrop, a large white box in the center of the page to track the conversation, and text-entry box, and a few rules of operation. He glanced at them with mild attention and began to agree to the terms, conditions, yada yada yada. The hardest part was actually choosing a name. If he allowed himself to enter his full name to this complete stranger, he could very well strike with some bad, bad luck and catch a creeper fan who would eventually find the hotel room. He wasn’t usually that cynical about people who still carried back packs and wore pigtails, but it was especially hard to believe young people were as innocent as their parents believed when they had just gotten done ripping each others hair out to get to some concert tickets. Whenever he tried to greet a suspicious looking one, he remembered two things; the surprisingly terrifying death glare that Brian whipped out on rare occasions of idiocy and that one time a fan tried to kill Ringo by baking him biscuits infused with every single food he was allergic to. John was aware that everyone died eventually, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be done in by a poison nutmeg gingersnap. He simply wrote “John” in the name slot. It wasn’t completely honest, but it wasn’t _exactly_ a lie, was it?

He began the conversation:

 

 **John:** I couldn’t help it – I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t stop you from chucking yourself out a window.

 **John:** So, what’s happening?

 

A minute went by. All he got was a whole lot of white space from the other end. _There,_ he thought smiling, _no harm done. No poisoned cookies, ya paranoid git._ He was just about to close the link for the first and last time when the white was disturbed by a flash of purple letters:

 

 **John:** So, what’s happening?

**Sarah: Nothing much. My suicide attempt has been hindered slightly by your reply. I stopped calculating air speed velocity to be mildly curious. :)**

 

John chuckled. Not only was it a girl, but a smart one, not the platinum-blondes that he was used to being seated with at parties. Sure, Cynthia had dyed her hair on his request, but she hadn’t bleached her brains out. And she wasn’t that one smart bird that he was sometimes set with that would talk your ear off with stories that detailed her infatuation with her professor and all his theories. Sarah obviously wasn’t that girl that was smart just because she was getting a degree, but actually smart, with words and wit. She didn’t take it seriously either, and a she was actually quite the laugh in that cheeky way.

John liked her. He was warming up to the purple-worded Sarah with four sentences of dialogue. It occurred to him that she could very well turn out to be a crazy fan, intent on doing all the things that John, Paul, George, and Ringo had seen described in letters, shouting from the floor, and what they saw in some of their eyes when they stared. Of course she was smart, but he knew that that was in no way a sign of sanity; the prime example, in this case, being _him_. His eyebrows furrowed as he weighed his options; reply and offer his trust to a stranger, or close the link and end any chance of finding out if she was a crazy one or just a smart one.

“Aww, screw it,” he said aloud, and he smiled wickedly as he sealed his choice with:

 

 

 **John:** I’m also curious – who exactly is Sarah?


	2. Strangers on a Page: Charactor Developement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides it's high time he broke a few rules, especially if it means the reveal of the mysterious Sarah. He's just not sure if his curiosity will blow his cover or be completely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Can I put on my pants first?"

**John:** I’m also curious – who exactly is Sarah?

 

John couldn’t help but let a malicious grin steal over his face as he hit ‘send’ and his query was flown over an undetermined distance to the stranger. Then again, it was always with the greatest pleasure and grandiose that he courted with danger. It was a nasty habit that had developed young. It started with taunting shopkeepers in the alleys of Mendips for apples and courting the daughters of men of importance and strength when he was older. It was a great thrill, no doubt, to come back unscathed from the lion’s den. For him, it comparable to sticking your head over the railing of a motorboat and letting your hand skim through the water, no doubt deep and fast with currents, and pulling yourself back to the deck relatively safe. It was the feeling of relief, but also of heart pounding adrenaline.

And as always, there was fear. Maybe this time he would lean too far over the edge and end up in the frigid waters, abandoned as the motorboat ran farther away. It was very possible, he thought, that he’d take it too far. It was fun when it was something of less import; it was a laugh when he’d told the queen and all her posh friends to rattle their jewelry as they performed. To John, it lost its appeal when he lost control. Unfortunately for him, it was common to do so. Playing with storekeepers soon turned to stealing their apples and dancing with the doctor’s daughter at the club evolved to taking her to bed. And in both cases, John had to be quick on his feet to dodge bullets.

 _You know,_ he thought, _she could very well be a nut. Be on yer guard, don’t say too much, don’t cross the line._ But that was exactly it; he was so good at crossing lines. And in the end, like in the proverb, he was the cat with the deadly curiosity. His brow furrowed, and not for the first time. He thought he was paranoid, then he thought it necessary caution, then went back to thinking himself completely daft. All he was sure of was this: a “dedicated” fan was never something to mess with. But was Sarah an exception?

He was in conflict with himself when the screen blinked bright with lavender:

 

**Sarah: Well, Sarah is me and I am Sarah. Is there really more to know?**

 

John let out a long exhale as he relaxed and the smile returned. _Charming,_ he thought. _It would be a travesty to pass up this opportunity._ He began to formulate a response:

 

 **John:** Well, that wasn’t the least bit vague. I don’t know; hobbies, talents, interests, good books you’ve read. Anything really – I can’t help but wonder. 

 

He hit send, but paused in thought just after. Sarah was, without a doubt, quite smart, and seemed like someone who took much more caution than John. It appeared to him that she would not offer up something to him until he did just the same. Again, he typed furiously, and when he was satisfied with the bit he’d written, he hit send:

 

 **John:** I’ll start – I play guitar, I try to write (quite hard as it turns out), read when there’s time (there never is), and I like a good picture or club when I can find one. And as long as we’re being mysterious strangers, I’m not from here, and that’s all you get to know. 

 

He thought it was good. Or at least good enough to elicit a similar response. He was slowly regaining his usually cockiness. His heart beat wildly with excitement. He was beginning to overstep another boundary and the rush that accompanied it returned as a familiar friend.

He was beginning to bounce with jittery energy when the screen alerted him again:

 

**Sarah: Alright. As long as we can be mysterious. I also enjoy the guitar and a good book and dabble a bit in writing myself (I’m very glad you share my sympathies on that matter). A good book I’ve read? I’m currently tackling The Great Gatsby. And this is all you get to know . . . until later. And then only maybe. ;)**

 

John had to admit his heart might have overlooked a few beats. Now they were being _mysterious_. Always a good word, _mysterious_. It meant there was the pull of wanting to find out more and the climax of discovering what was going on. He also took the care to notice the similarities between them. _A frustrated writer as well_ , he wondered thoughtfully, _Well, we’ll either get a long swimmingly or be bitterly speaking in metaphor about famous writers who happen to be dicks until one leaves._ John considered that thought for a moment. He shrugged – it wasn’t a far cry, but he thought he was good enough at masking his speak in light sarcasm that he wouldn’t end up being too much of a downer. He took this opportunity to construct a smart reply:

 

 **John:** It seems we have quite a bit in common. I’m also trying to get through the Great Gatsby, but I’ve had too many time constraints to get through it. What I have read has me wanting to kick some of the characters for being so thick. 

 

It was here that John lied a bit. He was reading The Great Gatsby, but he’s left out a simple detail – he found it incredibly boring. To him, it was the great American novel about rich people doing rich people things and complaining about them. He’d picked it up because there was a certain expectation of him to read it, either because he looked smart or because he was now a rich person (or so said his stock broker). The point was that Carraway's narration and insatiable love of business and nothing else put John to sleep. Quite literally, he would think as he mussed the bed-head from his hair.

 

**Sarah: And I thought I was the only one. Do you agree that Daisy should kick her husband to the curb? It's my turn for a question: what brings you to the place you're not from? I was entirely under the impression that everyone lived in London and their serfs occupied the remaining pasture.**

 

John laughed aloud at this, then quickly shut his mouth and gazed around the room. After all, no one could ever find out about the bird that broke his charismatic leader exterior. But by God, was she a laugh. John was excited like he'd never been before. He was breaking the rules again and gaining so much more from it than a quick high. He typed furiously at the keys, then paused. How the hell could he answer her. _Well, ya see, I happen to be in the most famous band in England and recently got back from playing in front of ten thousand people, but I'm totally a gear guy._ Close, but no cigar. He smiles anyway as he slowly tapped out a reply. It turned out he didn't have to lie this time.

 

 **John:** Business. Have to pay the bills and churn the butter, you know? And excuse me, but your view of serfs seems skewed – we only toil on the weekdays, Sunday is left to stone the witches and dance in the flames of the pagan feast. You could at least do your research.

 

John scanned over it a possible five times. It was funny, but he wanted it to be _impressively_ funny and just a smidgen funnier than her. It seemed to him it would take a bit more than gloating about meeting the queen and the history of bars that he'd made up one night to leave an impression on this girl. And as irrational and uncharacteristic as it seemed, he desperately wanted to. With twitching fingers, he hit send and waited with his hands nervously clasped over his mouth. He spent the minute between then and the response contemplating how absolutely queer he was before jumping at his computer:

 

**Sarah: Terribly sorry. I might be able to strike a deal to make up for it; you should meet me at the bar on 4 th street. I'll teach you about the Scientific Revolution. And you – some ready to show me this dance you speak of. You've caught my attention. I'll meet you there in five. **

 

The noise that came from deep within him was inhuman, something between a squeal of delight and a frightened shriek in the realization of how fucked he was. He was elated at the proposition of seeing her, meeting his new found mystery, and he jumped at the opportunity for that climax, that big reveal. His heart fell at one scene, displayed immediately in his head; the anticipation from the walk, the heart-stopping moment of seeing her across the street, and then those words said with a terrible finality – _Aren't you in the Beatles?_ And with that, his moment would fall through the cracks.

John was conflicted as he formulated a plan. He had already taken the risk of talking with her – shit, she would be _waiting_ there in the night got him to come. At the moment, his ego put itself aside and he thought to himself _maybe she doesn't care who you are._ Said ego returned with the reply of “but your fucking John Lennon”, to which one mind voice replied “yes, but so might _she_ if this goes to plan.” He giggled childishly at his own vulgarity. He tried looking on the situation with a light heart instead so as to ensure that he said yes. He barely thought as he punched in a response and slipped into a jacket.

 

 **John:** Can I put on my pants first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect new chapters as quickly as I churned these out. I only just created the account and these two have been sitting around for a while now. My fingers are crosses that you readers will appreciate more chapters. If you don't . . . I'm still going to write them. But thanks for your comments anyway.


	3. An Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name now comes with a face and a dirty sense of humor. As Sarah is revealed, John can't help but be smitten by a wit that may overcome his. Now all that's left is to fear whether it'll so him any good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's not too much of a motherfucker . . . but kind of.

If he could have shoved his hand any deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, he would have, but it would have only barely contained his nervous fidgeting. John strolled along the dimly lit sidewalk unprotected by his usual air of confidence. Instead of ambling with heavy, sure steps, he skipped with the gait of a giddy school boy. He could barely keep his stupid, boyish grin from taking over his face. Everything was different and strange and fantastically new, from his dropping the masculine he-man act to meeting a bird with nothing but the connective strings of technology, actually meeting an _interesting_ girl . . .

John stopped dead in his tracks. He glanced at the street signs with impatient eyes to find he was indeed on 4th street to where the Miss Mysterious Sarah had told him to stop. He let a gust of breath from his lungs out into the air as he peered down the street. Narrow as a hairs-width, it stretched between the old stone buildings of a God-forsaken place outside of London and emptied onto a quaint little park. _Fantastic,_ thought John with a smirk, _let your drunks out to sleep with the ducks, an attraction sought by many._ He laughed aloud to no one in particular.

“It is odd, right?” said someone in particular. “Someone thought it was a perfectly sane idea to plot a family park in the asshole of the universe. It's like dressin' a turkey gone stale an' rotten already.

John swung around with a vague curiosity and was struck with immediate recognition. The delightfully off-color humor and the playful, toying speculation were the dead give-away: the great reveal at the beginning of the story had found it's way, grinning, on his doorstep.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, this is she, is this my stalker?”

He couldn't help but laugh, though it was more by the fact that she had materialized, becoming flesh and bone before his eyes and exceeding every expectation he'd had of her. Sarah, in all her mystery, was quite normal. In no way did this mean boring to John. Her face held the traits of the common English girl with it's small upturned nose and round paleness. A plait of long and curling brown hair lay down her back, bouncing with every movement.  Her body was stunning by comparison. She was all curves and wonderful softness that John only wished he could form his hands around. There was a beautiful was in which she busted through her seams with her wide hips and full chest. _Definitely_ _not_ _a girl,_ he thought in stupefied simplicity. _That's a woman if I've ever seen one._ For the first time since his pimply-shy years in junior high school, he turned his head down with a giddy smile.

“John, then, aren't ya?”

“Yep. Ya guessed correct.”

“You seemed to have left out an important detail in our conversation.”

 _Aw shit,_ he thought. _Get yer pen out, boy, this will end shortly . . ._

“Why the hell didn't you tell me you were a good ol' Liverpool boy?”

His eyes widened in surprise. It was painfully true to him that he hadn't been able to get out in a while and explore, but wasn't he supposed to be famous? Maybe even a teensy bit celebrated? His confusion must have been plain to see, or Sarah was quick enough to read him and act accordingly.

“You're accent. Thicker than honey and not all that sweet. I lost mine after the big move here. Wanted to leave the fish town . . . but, as ya can see, I found another fish town. The moral of the story is don't be English or poor. Your choice.” She laughed confidently and unrestrained at her own joke. John let out a heavy sigh of relief and laugh right along. _She doesn't seem to give two shits about it._ he thought through a smile. _Quite a bit of a turn-on actually._ He smirked. “What are you grinnin' at, fool?” she returned with her own crooked smile.

“Nuthin'. What's twistin' yer face?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yeah, but I'm yer date – I have date acceptors privilege.”

“What the fuck even _is_ that?”

“. . . I don't know.” He couldn't figure out what he was doing for the life of him, and knew only that a small voice in the back of his head was screaming _Be charming for God sake, you git!_

She cackled madly at him (specifically not with him) without shame. Residents opened their windows to peer out onto the street and assess the damage. For the first time in a while, John didn't care what people thought. It was like Sarah had already invaded his system with her bold entrance and slyly whispered in his ear to be like her. And maybe not even that; maybe her influence was saying to just _be._ And so he was. He slipped from his pocket those heavy horn-rimmed glasses and placed them expertly on his nose. Sarah finally reappeared from her giggling fit and wiped a tear from her eye. “I think I like you.” she said, putting her hands on her hips and smiling matter-of-fact up at him.

John  raised an eyebrow and smirked right back at her. “Whaddaya mean ya think? Should I try kissin' arse? That usually wins over a few.” The sentient conscience lying at the back of his mind finally breathed a sigh of relief that he had taken his foot out of his mouth.

She rolled her eyes and began trotting down the street toward the bar with the expectation that he would follow. He did with more enthusiasm than was good for him. “Well,” she said, a light-hearted smile greeting him as she turned at the door of the bar, “while I'm impartial to arse-kissin', the night is still young and I'm still thinkin'. We'll have to find out, won't we?” With a single sweep of her hand, she shoved the door inward and waltzed in with John strutting with long steps to keep up.

The usual drunken cacophony of the bar was strangely and possibly unhealthily familiar to John. It reminded him of the dives in Liverpool that he had only just been able to afford until a few months ago. Just the same, the bars had not even room to drop the pin and no silence to hear it. He knew he was in with the big wigs when he could plainly see the dance floor glittering under a harsh light from above. It was a drastic turn around from Liverpool's cave stages and gothic interest and basements. John was unsure whether to be amazed or put out, but the music was so fresh it'd be a shame not to stay and chat a bit.

“C'mon,” shouted Sarah from the throng of the crowd, “let's get a booth an' get on with it then! I need a bit of food in me right about now.” She grabbed him by the cuff of his jacket and pulled him through a sea of tispy dancers. She was surprisingly strong for her resolutely short and stout structure. John gladly let her lead. He might have even found the strength somewhat sexy in that moment. But to him, it wasn't the one thing, the one strength or bluntness or wit. It was that she was able to work them together so _well_. She was somehow more complete then any bird he'd met before. His heart pounded at the simple thought of _I get to know this chick, I_ want _to know this chick_. It was the razors edge again, but with her, the point was even sharper.  “Whaddaya doin', boy? Pick up your feet, John, I ain't carryin' you!” She laughed loudly once more and threw him down into a booth in the back. She must have felt contrary at the moment because instead of taking the long route around the table, she jumped over into the booth, much to John's delight. He was still shaking with laughter when she put her elbows on the table drew his attention back to her.

“Well then.” she said aimlessly. She didn't seem to have a clear direction to go in with those words but she was confident enough that it was hard tell she was making it up as she went. “I've got to ask one thing; why'd you care?”

John paused. He'd arrived at another crossroads. _I was bored_ was never really the thing to say on a first date unless you enjoyed bitter partners, but at the same time he had no clear answer .Why _had_ he investigated in meeting her? There was a certain amount of loneliness associated with the continuing romp around the world on tour. It was impossible to take everything and everyone when leaving a place and it was no way to survive if the hours of his day were spent pining for something he left in the hotel some one thousand telephone poles back. And he wasn't supposed to pine. Not John Lennon. He knew he was a man and he knew that, in theory, he had to stand through storms of all kinds. It was his way. But he couldn't explain this to a girl who fifteen minutes ago barely knew he was a person let alone more than just a fedora'd troll cackling behind a keyboard. He had to say something cool, but for the first time in a long time he did not feel cool. He felt like the Beatle mask had been lifted and the pock-marked four-eyes boy that he'd tried so hard to discard in Liverpool was shining through. But he had to say _something._

He leaned back in the booth and looked up the ceiling with a sigh, a common expression of thought for him. “I thought you were interestin'. And it would be a shame to let ye chuck yerself out a window – I mean, look at ya.” He smiled, quite reassured and proud. It was snarky and somewhat terrible and made him look like a motherfucker, though not _too much_ of a motherfucker. Secretly, he wanted to be a total, fully developed motherfucker figure, but it was unsavory for the American press so he left the act at home for times when he went out to clubs. He let his ego swell once more.

Sarah nodded humbly and leaned back in her own seat. She looked John over head to toe with a grin spreading slowly across her face. John squirmed a bit at her gaze. He was unsure if she was figuring him out or mentally undressing him. He kept his face stony and locked in a state of cool indifference in case she found him as unattractive as he did. To add to the affect, he snapped the collar of his leather jacket up around his face like he had everyday in art school. Sarah, to his discontent, started to laugh. She hid her face in her hand and tried her best not to look him in the eye as he looked to her in confusion.

“I'm-I'm sorry, really, it's not you . . .” She burst into laughter again. “Okay, fuck that, it is. It's jus' you're tryin' so hard to look cool. Why? Do I intimidate ya, John?” Sarah smirked at him and hid her face beneath a pint of beer when it arrived at the table. John took his own in a numb state of displacement.

Now he was confused. She was not reacting like he'd ever seen a girl do so. The whole point of his facade was that it was so believable, that he fooled _himself_ into thinking he was truly that confident and cool. But Sarah had broken all convention and revealed him to himself. He had no idea what to say.  Maybe he wasn't supposed to say anything. It was odd, or so he thought. He didn't feel like it was necessarily a bad thing for him not to know or to at least have it planned out in his head. So he tried something new.

“That's a tough one,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter, “I'm always like this really.” He smirks. “Flippin' up collars an' such.”

“Really? Even the arrogant little stare?”

“No, that's me eyes – they're complete shite.” He removes them to demonstrate and must squint to adjust.

Sarah chuckled. “Yeah, ya look like you're starin' down the world, angry at the whole fuckin' place an' the man.” She stared him down with a smirk from behind her pint. John can't help but smile himself. He felt the drink pull at edge of his mind and picked up his own pint and took a careful sip. He bet he looked pretty cool in that moment and his body sighed in relief. Maybe he wouldn't flounder through the whole night.

“Interesting.” Sarah leaned forward on the table with her hands clasped around her glass. One hand went to her neck to fiddle with a small silver feather on a shiny chain. John liked it. It was better than his habits. Nail biting and smoking were much less attractive fixations than a silver pendant twirled between the fingers. He made sure not to stare very long, however. Giving a woman an appreciative look (though not often appreciated by the woman) was only entry level creepy. Staring at her neck was on the side of serial killers who'd read Dracula one to many times. Overall, a terrible first impression. She broke his train of thought with a direct “Are you staring at my breasts?”

 _Shit. No, I was staring at . . . yer neck. Jesus fuck, I've lost before I started._ “What? No! No, I like th' lil' . . . feather.” He pointed to it nonchalantly as if to validate his staring. He only just noticed that he'd leaned forward too. The space between them was closing in. It actually made John a little giddy. He'd of course never show it. And so he only smiled a crooked smile and gave her her due attention like he genuinely wanted to. She did the same.

“Hm. Really? Aw, it's nothin' jus' a trinket. It's a fixation to play with it. I always gotta have my hands around _somethin'_.” She bit her lip. John felt the need arise in him too. She wasn't even _trying_ to reel him in. And yet it happened, much as the world spun on. He had no idea what the hell was happening to him. Meeting random girls on fifteen words of text, breaking every rule (well, the important ones) that Brian had carefully laid out on the table when they started touring, actually fucking _falling_ for her, even if it wasn't romantically but intellectually, sexually . . . maybe romantically.

He picked up the silence. “Yeah. It's a people thing, ya know? Ev'ryones apparently got a fixation of some sort. They got names an' all that sort a' stuff. They're jus' . . . lil' things. Human things.” He did bite his lip,  but he hid it behind his glass as he sipped at his pint.

She regained control of the conversation after looking down into her draft. “So, ya've raised a good point. Here's a follow-up question an' a fair one I think: what's your fixations? Is there a name fer that?”

“Oral fixation.”

Sarah spit her drink all over the table. She laughed openly and he began to follow. It was a ridiculous innuendo, but it was enough to release his tension. Still shaking with laughter, he took a long drink from his glass. A silence had returned, but it was warm and smiling, Much like she was.

Sarah nodded her approval. “That sounds right. It really does. I mean, I always hafta have this thing on to keep me occupied durin' class.”

John fumbled. “So a student.” He fiddled with the glass. Brian's second rule nagged in his mind – if you've got a girl, the age difference had to be minimal at best. Like not the age of a fan and not the age of a fan's mother.

Sarah grinned. “Yep. That's me. Final year at university. Gettin' my degree in computer sciences.” She tipped her glass up with a proud gesture.

He sighed with relief and smiled. He was impressed. That was something he dearly wished happened more often. “You design it? Th' computers, that is?”

“Nah, software. It's what makes the whole bells an' whistles go off, to put it in layman's terms. What about you?”

“A student? Nah. Not anymore. Went to art school for a while, but got out. I wanted to work on . . . “ _What are you gonna say?_ He paused. _To be a Beatle and become world famous?_ “ . . . to work on somethin' else. A different job.” That worked. It wasn't pretentious like “working on my career” sounded but it also wasn't insane, much like being in a band was. It was satisfactory, but not his best work. He knew he could be a fantastic lair, but it seemed now he just didn't want to.

“Hm.” She said vaguely. He took another sip with less confidence or ease than before. He could only pray she didn't ask about the job, because it was obvious she didn't know. That, or she was really that _good._ “I can respect that. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do. So is that what made ya the intellectual you are right now?” She smirked at him again, tilting her head slightly to the side.

This was a good sign. For one, she hadn't made fun of the art school dropout scenario he'd painted for himself. Not that it wasn't real, but it was still a bit of an ego lift to have a girl not mention it for the first time ever. And she hadn't asked about the job when _everybody_ asked about the job from the get go. He'd fielded all sorts of questions in his so far short musicians career, the favorites including _are you worth more than my house?_ and _is it true that musicians actually make money?_ It was that relief that he wouldn't have to deal with it that released the remaining tension in his shoulders and the reservations he had had.

He picked up his pint and downed the last of it with a smirking finality about him. As Sarah smiled at him coyly, he did just the same, adding a wink for good measure. Maybe he would finally get the break he needed. And God knew how much he needed someone like _her._

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a first. Await patiently for chapter 2.


End file.
